“You saw her push me,” I said. “Then you told the nurse I slipped.”
He started crying.
I did not.
The pain medication had softened the edges of my ribs, but it had not softened the fact between us.
“Are you going to tell the truth if they ask you again?” I said.
He stared at the floor for a long time.
“Yes.”
“Even if she cuts you off?”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
I wanted to believe him.
Trust had once come easily with Graham because he showed up in ordinary ways.
He packed my lunch when I worked late.
He kept jumper cables in my trunk.
He remembered how I took my coffee and always checked the weather before long drives.
Those small things had convinced me he was steady.
But steadiness only counts when the ground moves.
When his mother pushed me, Graham had chosen the version of peace that required my silence.
